Sunday, April 18, 2010

Smirnoff Ice and The Oldest Artist

You know how sometimes, you land in such bizarre circumstances that you think: I am going to remember this and....tell my bff....post it on Facebook....blog about it tomorrow? Well you LUCKY ducks, I did ALLLLL the livin' for you this weekend, so all you have to do is read about it and use your *imaginative* powers (which I certainly hope you've been training as instructed) and it'll be just like you were there. But with less second-hand smoke and confusion.

Saturday night, the moon was in pisces ascendant and my sun was in the fourth house of Jupiter. What does that *really* mean? I made it up. It means we got a sitter. I like to be dramatic and full o' hyperbole. Try it!

We went to a local wings place to meet up with some friends for a birthday party. The "after party" as I like to call it, moved one parking lot over to a bar attached to a hotel that The Man kept reminding me was where someone had been shot recently. And died. (In the hotel, hopefully not the attached bar, but I can't rule it out.) You could tell that none of us were really sure about entering; it looked like the kind of place where SERIOUS drinkers got their drink on. And the band? It was where aging classic-rock cover bands went to die. (Hopefully not from being shot. Again, not ruling it out.)

But enter we did. Had a record been playing, it might have skipped. I can't really do the crowd justice; think "serious drinkers on pay day" or "scary Skynard fans" and you might be close.

They were rocking out, or maybe just nodding that yes bartender, bring me another round. Who's to say. The BEST part of this bar? The octogenarian self-proclaimed "arist" who did caricatures while you waited. He had a sign that proclaimed something like "pictures too go!" (I couldn't help wigging out that anyone would abuse the word 'too' in such fashion. I can't make up this level of grammar.) So I turned to the wife of The Man's friend and said, "You want something fun? Edit THAT sign!" She was also an English major. WHAT ARE THE ODDS? I know. It's crazy! (But she actually went to law school and became productive. I am now stabbing my eyes with a fork in my awe and envy.)

The "Artist" on deck started a stop watch and then began doing a lovely couple's picture. (Read my use of "lovely" to actually mean "felonious".) His sign said he was the "fastest artist" and "going in the Guinness Book of World Records." Maybe the Guinness BEER Book, friends, because Speedy Gonzales he was NOT. He took about 10 minutes to just to finish her hair. And he did weird flamboyant arm movements which were totally unrelated to any sort of portrait activity. I'm not sure why he bothered with the stop watch because I could have timed him on my Fossil watch, or by the number of disturbingly bad Heart cover songs. By the time the artist was done with the lady, her boyfriend or whomever he was had left to get another beer. Thus the portrait was just of the poor lady, whom I pretty sure probably went home and committed suicide after seeing the portrait. I wouldn't have paid that guy to caricature my CAT.

Thankfully after sitting through only one "world-record" caricature, we were allowed by the Birthday Boy to move our party on down the road. Next stop? A sports bar near our old house. And by the by, how confused was I (after having about 2 more Smirnoff Ices than normal - since normal is 0-1) to think we were about five minutes from home and then BAM! realize we had really moved almost two years ago and were really closer to 40 minutes away? It was confusing.

The next bar did NOT offer any old sketching artists, but it did offer bad karaoke, which is just redundant. We entered to the sounds of a delusional woman singing "Bring me to Life" by Evanescence. You know it, I know it, AMY LEE knows it by gum, you just don't karaoke that song. It was as screamingly bad as you're imagining, trust me.

I did, however, decline the idea of singing at all. Trust me, I did EVERYONE a favor. (Not that I wasn't tempted because I was. I could have Gaga-ed it up a wee bit I'm sure.)

When it was time to leave, The Man and his bff did some sort of football warm-up in order to say goodbye. Note to self: it's a good thing women don't do this. We'd just look stupid. "Hey, in order to leave Tammy, you gotta' go through ME!" Then we'd rush each other in a flurry of bedazzled bar clothes and strappy sandals. Yep. Stupid. Not that men don't look stupid doing such things, but it's acceptable stupid, because they're men.

Hey The Man, if you're reading this, I think you're adorable. You and your football drills in public.

Anyone else have a wild weekend?

Comments, questions, karaoke?

0 comments: